Death of the Body

by Rick Chiantaretto

  “Look at this place. It is the crossroads between our world and theirs. Every crossroads has two Comings, and two Goings. Every crossroads is a sacred place, full of wonders… and dangers.”

  “Dangers?”

  “You just came from the level of the body, one of the Comings of this crossroads. The other Coming belongs to the level of the spirit—the energumen’s level. Since my death, I have been unable to help the spirits of men cross. Since my death the demons have claimed the spirits of the dead.”

  As he spoke, my father disrobed and held his cloak out to me.

  “I died as you died. I was only able to hide here because of my intimate knowledge of this crossroads. It belongs to our family. But Joshua killed me with the fire he conjured. I have to complete my death. I have to transition to a lower level. I don’t have the power to do the job our family was meant to do anymore. Until you can reclaim this crossroads, with all of the power of the Angel of Death, the energumen will continue to take the spirits of the men who die—and the mages too now that they have fallen into the human cycle. You, my son, must reclaim your rightful place. Since you died on earth, the energumen will come looking for your spirit. They are promised a spirit for every death. I have a plan to save you from them and complete my transition to a lower level. My death and transition will be our family’s salvation—your salvation.”

  Realization dawned. My father was dead, but he hadn’t yet been reborn. He had to go to a lower level like I did. The deal Joshua made with the energumen required the spirits of the dead, so they would come for a spirit. They would come for me.

  My father had waited here for over twenty years. He waited for me to die in the level of the body, for me to come to this crossroads so that my sprit and my knowledge could return to Orenda. He intended on being the taken by the energumen. He intended to take my place.

  “The level of the spirit is below the level of the body?”

  My father nodded.

  “You’re not going to the level of the body? You’re going even lower? That means you’ll forget.”

  A sad smile turned his lips as understanding filled my mind. The expression made him look old and tired. It must not have been easy for him to wait for me here all these years, knowing what would happen to him when I finally came. How many spirits of the men and women who died did he have to watch the energumen take—unable to save them?

  “I will forget either way. You have something no one else has—not me, not Joshua. You have experienced and remembered death. You better understand it than anyone else—and with that understanding comes power. You have learned everything you need to learn to take my place as the Master Elder of the level of the body, the master of the death of the body.”

  My father placed the cloak in my hands. I shook my head. “I can’t take it.”

  “You must. You must become the Reaper. You must stop Joshua and save the spirits of the dead. You must save me.”

  “How? How can I defeat him? How can I save you?”

  “Joshua has no concept of the death you know intimately. He only inflicts it on others so that more spirits will die on Earth and then be taken by the energumen. He knows that death caused you to cross physically into that world, but he doesn’t know how you remembered who you were. Even if he now knows the ring is the key, he is too afraid of death to find the door. That is his weakness, and your strength.”

  “If the energumen take you, you’ll forget who you are! How can I save you from that? How can I restore your memory?”

  My father’s composed demeanor broke. The look on his face said that this was a statement he already knew, but that was trying to bury. I felt his anticipation turn into fear.

  He didn’t answer my question. Instead his eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m sorry to place this responsibility on you. I wish I had the ability to go back to Orenda. I don’t. I’m dead. There are no exceptions to death. I’m in the human cycle now. I must fall, as you fell.”

  “Why didn’t you just keep the ring?” My question sounded accusatory. “Couldn’t you have experienced death, kept your memory, and saved us?”

  “Oh, Edmund. Then I would have lost you. If you forgot who you were, if the energumen took you, whom would I teach? Whom would I love? Who could claim their destiny as the Reaper? Children are meant to experience the loss of their parents. The love they have for their parents isn’t the same as the love a parent has for their child. Parents are not supposed to lose their children. Had I lost you, I wouldn’t have the strength to do what I’m now asking you to do. Besides, I’m old. My cycle was almost complete in Orenda. My time was coming, and my son is the only person entitled to inherit the responsibilities and privileges that come with being the Angel of Death. It had to be this way, or the Angel of Death would cease to be, and all human spirits would be lost forever.”

  “I understand,” I said, hoping I wasn’t lying.

  “This was always your destiny, Edmund. You were always meant to take my place. My only regret is that I couldn’t mentor you myself.”

  The look in his eye was somewhere between sadness and pride as I slipped on the smoky cloak.

  “Raise the hood,” he said, as a distant whine began echoing through the rocky cavern. “The scythe isn’t meant to kill or strike down. It’s to capture. To reap,” my father explained, handing me the blade. “The energumen, while dark and fearsome, have a unique ability. You already know they can enter the land of the soul—our home. That is why we had to teach you the spell against them when you were young. But, as you now know, they are also the keepers of the secrets of the spirit. They command the power of possession, of being able to cross between the levels.

  “The scythe is meant to capture them. When they come for me, you must catch one with the scythe. Then it will be under your control and will show you the way to Orenda. An energumen is the final price required to enter your home, Edmund.”

  The whine turned into a screech, like the sound I’d heard bats make on the nature channel. It grew so loud that I had to fight the desire to cover my ears. In order to be heard, my father had to yell.

  “If you miss your chance now, wait for another death. Another spirit will always come. You’ll have infinite chances.”

  The sound of screeching took on life as it engulfed us. The air hummed and reverberated with it. The shadows on the rock walls and in the crevices came alive around us—shadow creatures with yellow eyes.

  I watched my father’s face. There were signs of fear but also of preparation. He had known this time would come. He had been waiting for it, preparing for it. He knew exactly how much time we would have together before the energumen would come for me, and I trusted that he prepared exactly what I needed to hear to fill my new responsibilities. He mouthed the words “I love you, son. I’m so proud of you,” before the energumen took him over the cliff.

  Shadows flew everywhere. The only source of light came from the blade of the scythe, which managed to find the light somehow. The creatures scattered away from the light, but I plunged the scythe into a group of them anyway, surprised when I caught one on my first swing. The blade hooked around the shadow creature and trapped him in a beam of light.

  I felt a tug and then, with a blink, I was in the middle of an alfalfa field, lying on my back, my face tilted toward the sun and my hands and fingers weaving a comfortable pillow under my head. The bright sun was centered in the sky and was hot enough that I unbuttoned my shirt. I sat up and listened to the familiar sound of the wind as it spoke through the grass, trees, and fields.

  Orenda wasn’t colorless or cold like it was when I was just a visitor from another level. There was no silver light leading toward the mountains. My cloak and scythe weren’t visible in the sunlight, but I could feel them as a part of me—as an extension of my hand, ready for use at a moment’s notice.

  It was an empowering feeling, finally knowing who I was. I felt the presence of responsibility mixed with possibility: possibility that I could be successful now t
hat I understood the tools, possibility because I had hope, possibility because I was home.

  I made my way to the city gates, which opened for me just like they used to when I was here as a child. The city was filled with men and women I now knew once lived and died on Earth. These were the people my father had saved at the crossroads. I wondered how many of them even remembered him. My wondering, however, was not left a question for long.

  “It’s been quite some time since we’ve had someone successfully cross over,” one townswoman said to me.

  “You must have been very righteous in life, with a world so wicked that most don’t make it here. I’m very proud of you,” another woman explained.

  “Let me show you to where you will be staying for the next few days.”

  I was taken to a small residence, a house that wasn’t far from where I had grown up. I wondered if Clayton still lived there.

  “I have a million questions,” I told the woman who was instructed to help me get settled.

  “I know this might be overwhelming. Depending on your beliefs in life you may have some trouble adjusting or need someone to talk to. Don’t worry, you can ask anything you want of your domestic, who will spend some extra time with you at the beginning to help you cope.”

  “My what?”

  “Your domestic. All the people here have one. They’re assigned to you to take care of you while you are here.”

  “I don’t understand. They’re like a servant?”

  “Yes. One domestic is assigned to multiple families, of course. They will help you reconcile your beliefs now that you are here. I think you’ll find that whatever your religion, Orenda will be much to your liking, if not exactly your idea of heaven.”

  The front door opened into a small living area. There was a staircase to an upstairs bedroom, but no kitchen. The beautiful backyard featured a gigantic pine tree that I could tell was missing the conversations it used to have with my people—the mages.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to get settled and instruct your domestic to come make introductions. Domestics have certain privileges here,” this woman said with a bit of hesitation, “but don’t be alarmed. They’re perfectly safe.”

  Safe? I wasn’t sure what to make of the last statement, but before I had the chance to ask, the woman was gone and I was alone.

  Even though I was home—and I definitely was home—something felt out of place. I wasn’t sure if it was because I had become accustomed to life in the level of the body, or if I longed for Orenda back in the day when my people filled this city. Maybe I was out of place with my new responsibilities and calling because, understand them as I might, I still had no idea how to fulfill them.

  It was good to have an Orendan connection to the earth again, though. It wasn’t that the connection was different, but I felt it stronger here both because it was familiar to me in this setting, and because I belonged here. It made me want to learn. I wanted to save the spirits of those crossing over. I wanted to defeat Joshua.

  But where to start? Maybe that was why I felt out of place: I had no idea what to do next.

  I found myself out in the garden, peering up into the large pine tree. I was about to close my eyes and start a conversation with it when I heard rustling sound behind me.

  “Sir, I have been instructed to introduce myself. I am your domestic.”

  For a moment I thought the tree was going to speak to me; the wind changed but there was a strange emptiness in the tree, almost as if it had forgotten how to speak.

  “Sir?” the voice came from behind me again. “Do you require anything?”

  I touched the pine needles of the tree softly so that it knew I was there and respected it. I wanted it to know that I would listen if it desired to speak.

  “No, I think I’m okay for now,” I answered, turning toward the voice.

  My heart skipped a beat. The woman standing in the doorway, calling herself my domestic, was my mother.

  Coming soon

  About the Author

  I've often been accused of having done more in my life than the average person my age but if I were completely honest, I'd have to tell you my secret: I'm really 392.

  So after all this time, I'm a pretty crappy writer.

  I have two books published and a bunch half written (when you have eternity, where's the reason to rush?). I've been favorably reviewed by horror greats like Nancy Kilpatrick, and my how-to-write-horror articles have been quoted in scholarly (aka community college freshmen's) papers.

  I enjoy the occasional Bloody Mary, although a Bloody Kathy or Susan will suffice.

  Mostly, I just try to keep a low profile so people don't figure out who I REALLY am.

  Stalk Rick

  Official Website: www.ricktheauthor.com

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  Also available by Rick Chiantaretto

  Facade of Shadows

  First Edition

  Relaunch early 2014

  See a mistake?

  As perfect as I want every book to be, something was missed. If you find an editing problem, please don't hesitate to email me at rick@rickchiantaretto.com with the mistake. I would love to reward you with some swag, free books, or maybe even eternal life (especially if your name is Mary. Did I mention how much I love a good Bloody Mary?)